


i guess i'll just have to keep you warm.

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Banter, Blowjobs, Body Image, Forced Orgasm, Insecurity, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Overstimulation, Platonic Arrangements(tm), Power Exchange, Praise Kink, Sex Toys, Snowballing, Teasing, Wet & Messy, inappropriate invocations of shakespeare, sartorial mishaps, touched-upon class difference/envy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 07:05:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8153287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: “You ruined my coat,” Ben said, breaking John’s rule as he leaned down to nose at John’s neck. “Very angry with you.” He took John’s earlobe between his teeth and grazed it, then dropped his mouth to nibble at the thin skin just below his jaw, feeling his pulse pound under his lips. It was just like the first time they’d done this, just like every time; Ben knew his body and what he could do to it and it was like coming home.John gasped again, tilting his head to the opposite side to open up the expanse of his neck. “You’re not being quiet,” he scolded, but it wasn’t convincing.“You should know better,” Ben murmured against his neck, “than to give me orders.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> john is a chubby chaser who pathologically spends money on shiny things, but ben should be very grateful.
> 
> nobody beta'd this because i'm too ashamed to ask people to proofread porn

Ben dismounted his horse and winced. His body was not used to riding so hard, and his thighs burned with it. After the lazy, uneventful summer, the gray skies and torrential rain only made him exhausted. Finally, there was news - finally Washington had called his officers together to strategize. Ben missed these men, the camaraderie and creative tension palpable in a room with them.

He left his horse tied up in the barn, draping a worn blanket over her and stroking her nose before he found a bar to place between the door handles, to be sure the oncoming storm wouldn’t blow them open. Ben was often teased for his affection toward the animals, but he couldn’t bring himself to forsake their comfort for his own. He’d been known, as a boy, to curl up with the barn fox on an afternoon with his little book of poems and fall asleep. It wasn’t his fault he felt more of a connection to them than he did to most people.

As he began to slog through the wet grass from the barn to the great house, Laurens raced past him, his horse kicking up mud that splattered on Ben’s coat. “Tallmadge!” John called as he reared his horse back, “Apologies.” He walked his horse round to stand in front of Ben, and looked down at him from his place in the saddle. He studied the state of Ben’s uniform. “Shit. Sorry about that, man.” And he smiled brightly, his teeth a bright flash of white. Laurens had this way about him, a conspiratorial spirit, that endeared him to people who were better off without his company. Still, Ben felt the desire to remain in his good graces - he nodded and as Laurens’ horse trotted the rest of the way to the barn he continued on his way.

Letting himself into the house he was met with a hushed murmur accompanied by flickering light from the kitchen; he ignored it and went in the opposite direction, up the stairs. He trailed his hands along the smooth railing on the balcony; his boot heels clicked on the polished wood of the floor.

The washbasin in the master suite was filled with water, but Ben scraped at the mud and decided it was a lost cause. He stripped himself of the coat and draped it on bed. There was a full-length mirror at the vanity; he turned and studied himself in it, fiddling with his cravat. Finally he sighed and undid the thing, tossing it behind him to join the coat in his frustration. His shirt had been crisp when he’d ridden out for his errands that morning but now it was rumpled, and Ben was too tired to care.

The grand front doors were just shutting as he walked back out onto the mezzanine, and he leaned over the rail to look upon Laurens and Hamilton. “He jests at scars that never felt a wound,” he called, and they turned to regard him from below.

“Ah!” Hamilton fell to one knee, both hands over his heart. “But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?” He turned to Laurens, face imploring, attempting to convince him as if he were his lonely audience. “It is the east, and Juliet… she is the sun!”

Laurens was cackling. “Are you three acting out your romances again?” Lafayette crossed the room and held out a hand, which Hamilton took to help him stand, and he took a dramatic bow. Lafayette regarded him, unable to hide his amused smirk. “This new American obsession with the theatre I think I will never understand.” 

Ben hurried down the stairs to them. Lafayette, broad and tall as he was, wrapped him in a tight embrace. “It is nice to see you, Benjamin,” he said, pulling back to grip him by the shoulders and look him up and down. A smile spread across his face. “You look well.”

“I am well.” Ben moved on to hug Hamilton and Laurens in turn, but the minute he made contact with Laurens he was crushed between the two of them at once. “Though not for long, if you two break my ribs,” he squeaked.

Laurens released him, though he couldn’t seem to resist ruffling his hair. “We missed you, Benny,” he said, as Ben swatted his hand away. “Sorry again about your coat.”

Lafayette piped up, clearly alarmed. “What’s happened to your coat?”

“Laurens was showing off his master riding skills and managed to soil it.” Fussing over him was a habit of Laf’s, and Ben was grateful that Washington chose that moment to break up their little reunion.

“You are all reaquainted, I see.” The general looked as imposing as ever, even without his jacket, decorated with all his honors. He was clad in just his breeches and his waistcoat, unbuttoned, looking less pristine though no less stoic than Ben was used to seeing him. He tossed an apple back and forth between his hands as he walked toward them. Ben swallowed. It was amazing how efficiently being in the presence of such physical and symbolic power could shut up even the most raucous of young men. Beside him, Laurens was leaning against Hamilton, still trying to stifle his giggles at some joke Alexander had whispered at him, but his attention was unquestionably on his general.

Washington stood in front of them a moment, looking each of them up and down. His eyes seem to linger on Ben’s lack of uniform, and Ben held his breath, but after a moment Washington smiled. “Splendid. Come, we have much to discuss.” He turned and led the way into the lit-up kitchen, the former aides trailing behind.

*

Men poring over a map table gave off a certain tension, but it wasn’t exciting anymore. Men arguing about war, ambition and bloodlust and valor and honor; at this point all it incited within Ben was a headache, driving at his temples. He heaved a deep sigh as he strode out into the hall; he slid down against the wall, and, only intending to take a little break, let his eyes fall shut.

“Has the old man been running you ragged?” Ben could feel the dregs of sleep tugging at him so he supposed it was a good thing that Laurens was interrupting him. He smiled fondly, though still a bit bitter.

“Hardly. It’s been a slow summer,” he said as Laurens settled cross-legged beside him. “How do you leave the Carolinas?”

John smiled. “It’s the south. It’ll be there when I return. That is, if my men hold off the mercenaries like I taught them.”

“The British still haven’t figured out how to use the terrain, huh?” They shared a matching grin.

“The minute they do, my entire strategy goes up in smoke,” Laurens said lightly. Ben laughed, and he tipped his head back to the wall. “It’s been too long.”

Laurens was lifting Ben’s hand, turning it over so his palm was up. He pushed Ben’s sleeve up and examined his forearm, ran two fingers down toward his wrist. Ben shivered. “It has,” Laurens finally confirmed, his voice soft, and he brought Ben’s hand up, pressed his lips against the pads of two of his fingers. Ben looked on with affection. Laurens could be sweet, could be a comfort; Ben rarely burned for it while they were apart, it wasn’t anything as serious as that, but they had a certain connection that he was glad to remake each time they could.

“This is hardly private,” Ben warned, but there was no gravitas behind it as John pulled his index finger into his mouth and sucked. He bit down on his lip to keep back any moans that might slip through, thinking of the group of men on the other side of the wall and how they could walk out at any moment, find them here together, and he felt an excited shiver go down his spine.

“Later,” John said, “I’ve a surprise for you.” He kissed Ben’s knuckles and set their hands down on Ben’s own thigh, wove their fingers together. Ben looked down at their intertwined fists; it felt intimate, and Ben gulped. He looked back up at Laurens, whose face was still soft with good humor, and felt a bit better. He attempted a grin to show he was game, and John matched it before hopping up.

“Come,” he said. “They’ll be expecting us, I’m sure.”

“Wouldn’t want to arouse their suspicions.” Ben groaned as he rose from the ground; he had to make note that he wasn’t a boy anymore, couldn’t sit just anywhere, for his back increasingly made itself heard in its protests these days.

“No,” Laurens agreed. “I can think of other things I’d much rather be arousing.”

Ben smacked him upside the head.

*

Washington dismissed them after an hour or so more of work. Ben felt accomplished, having made some headway on the use of what little up-to-date intelligence he had. They were all buzzing a bit, some more than others; Lafayette gave Ben a pleading look as Alexander talked his ear off on their way up the stairs.

The room he'd been sleeping in, the large suite, in which Laurens was now joining him, was down a narrow corridor off the main one; the decor was ornate, cherry-wood furniture and plush velvet upholstery, the linens of quality cotton and worn to softness. The house Washington was using and everything in it was beautiful and antique, a sort of old-money stuffiness about it, and Ben felt out of place here; he wasn’t used to the comfort or the pretense. Laurens, though. Laurens fell right in the moment he’d arrived, appeared the perfect master of the house even in his young age. Ben thought about what he must have at home, his father’s land, the home he grew up in snuggled up in expensive blankets at night and unaware of cold. Ben knew he’d been the sort of boy he’d been envious of, growing up, a parallel version of himself he’d constructed in his mind in a world so different from his own. But it was hard to reconcile his knowledge of Laurens as a warrior, his battle-born spirit and bloodlust, with the pretty picture he made among the soft lighting and fabrics.

John had left Ben sitting on the bed, palming the quilt, while he’d lit some candles around the room, and now he joined him, sitting sideways to face him. Ben traced the bedspread, avoiding his gaze. He suddenly felt put on the spot, insecure. He thought of looking in the mirror earlier in the day, the way his shirt had fit badly, the way his breeches were tight around his thighs. He could see Laurens’ stockings and his lean calves; he compared them and came away angry at himself.  _ Has the old man been running you ragged, _ Laurens had said, and Ben had shot back,  _ Hardly.  _ It was the truth.

“I want you to be quiet for me tonight,” Laurens said, running his fingers through Ben’s hair. He drew close, his eyes drifting over Ben’s face. “Can you do that?” Ben nodded, and John sealed their lips together, flicking his tongue into Ben’s mouth and stroking his thumb at his neck. It did the trick; Ben felt himself relax, even through the pang of guilt as Laurens rested his other hand at his hip. He let himself be overwhelmed, enjoying being cradled between John’s two hands, enjoying the quiet and relative dark. His head was spinning, he could see them together, coupled like they’d been before, and he felt himself stir with it, as excitable as ever.

They kissed for a time, drawing it out. Ben wasn’t usually impatient, but he soon found himself pressing back against John, climbing into his lap when he was met with some resistance. Laurens chuckled into his mouth, and when Ben got him pushed onto his back to straddle him, he broke their kiss. “Dear Tallmadge,” he gasped, “you’ve been holding out on me.” He had both hands on Ben’s hips now and was gazing up at him, wiggling to get comfortable but not to dislodge him.

“You ruined my coat,” Ben said, breaking John’s rule as he leaned down to nose at John’s neck. “Very angry with you.” He took John’s earlobe between his teeth and grazed it, then dropped his mouth to nibble at the thin skin just below his jaw, feeling his pulse pound under his lips. It was just like the first time they’d done this, just like every time; Ben knew his body and what he could do to it and it was like coming home.

John gasped again, tilting his head to the opposite side to open up the expanse of his neck. “You’re not being quiet,” he scolded, but it wasn’t convincing.

“You should know better,” Ben murmured against his neck, “than to give me orders.”

“Ahh, Major,” John laughed, and he flipped them swiftly, pinning Ben’s wrists to the bed; Ben took in a gulp of air as he felt the strength in his hips and legs used against him. “I’ve seen before how well you take orders.”

“Now,” Laurens said, sitting back in the cradle of Ben’s hips, “do you have any further outbursts planned, or can I get on with my surprise?”

Ben nodded. He’d had his fun, and he didn’t see any use in resisting now. Laurens had a strong personality, as anyone who’d met him could confirm; he had a domineering streak and could take charge of any situation. It was what made him a good soldier, and a phenomenal lover; his charisma and charm notwithstanding he was still left with his cunning ability to read the wants and needs of another, as well as his devilish good looks.

John seemed pleased that he’d rendered Ben back into silence. He smirked down at him, unmoving for a moment, as if to reinforce that Ben wasn’t to move. Ben only felt a hot flush come up on his skin under the scrutiny; he squirmed a bit, but lowered his eyes to show submission, and Laurens swung a leg to move off of him. Ben lay there, not even moving his arms; it was only when Laurens told him to strip that he scrambled to action.

Kneeling up on the bed to undo his flies, he couldn’t see what Laurens was doing at the dresser; he tried to focus on what it could be that he was hiding to take his mind off how uncomfortable he felt, undressing like this for Laurens after so many months. He knew the man to be discerning, choosy; as he pulled his shirt up he looked down at his own stomach, soft for three months of relative inactivity, and felt inadequate.

If Laurens noticed his misgivings, he didn’t say anything. He looked Ben up and down but the expression on his face seemed to be the same one he’d paid every time he’d appraised him before. Ben shuddered, cold without his clothes, without the heat of another body pressed against him. He put his hands behind his back like he knew Laurens tended to like, puffed his chest out and arched his back just so, presenting. But he whined, wanting contact. Laurens let a smile spread across his face, but it wasn’t his usual menacing smirk, just one of his warm, welcoming grins. “Not necessary, love,” he told him, crossing to the bed and touching Ben’s shoulders to indicate his arms. “Just relax.” He smoothed a hand down his back and Ben felt goosebumps prick up under his hand; he leaned back into the touch, giving up on figuring out the contents of the little black box Laurens had returned holding. John had gotten on the bed behind him and now his hands came to rest at Ben’s hips again; Ben tensed, feeling how his fingers dug into the bit of extra flesh he’d accumulated there. John left one hand at his left side but brought the other back up his spine. “Breathe,” he told him, and Ben let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Forward?” John suggested, pushing a little at Ben’s shoulder; Ben flopped down, side of his face to the mattress, still on his knees so his ass was pushed up in the air, presented to John.

“Pretty,” John praised, giving one of his cheeks an affectionate pinch. Ben gasped, arousal stirring low in his belly. John was ghosting his palms over his upper thighs, the backs of his calves; touching everywhere at once, and Ben couldn’t keep up. He wanted John’s hands on him in the most intimate way they could be, but he didn’t want this to stop, and besides, he’d effectively been told to shut up. He rubbed his cheek on the bedspread and let John explore.

John leaned down over him; Ben hissed at the scratch of his clothes on his heated skin. He hated knowing that John wasn’t nude, wanted so badly to feel them together skin on skin. 

He wished he could see John’s freckles, the dusting of pink on his chest that rose when he got aroused; he hoped John would let him watch his face when he came. Sometimes John wanted to be in control, but he’d let Ben ride him before, let him work himself up and down on his cock until he took over and pounded into him quick and hard. John looked beautiful in the throes of pleasure, his abdomen twitching with his release. Ben felt his cock jerk at the memory.

“You’re so soft, Benjamin,” John lilted in his ear, and his tone was light but it hammered right through Ben’s reverie. Panic; Ben didn’t want to panic but he could feel it coming on, he could feel his heart making to beat through his ribcage and his head spinning, not pleasant, his stomach turning over, not in need. The compulsion was to run, John hated him, found him repulsive, was about to laugh at him and then send him from the room to stew in his humiliation.

John could sense it. Ben could tell in the way his touch had lifted a bit, the way he’d backed off, as if he were gentling a skittish animal. It was the way he always handled him; Ben had had bouts of anxiety in these positions before, with John, and he’d always had a gift for handling them. His touch was familiar and unwavering but this time Ben needed more; he pressed back into John’s body, needing to feel something solid and strong, needing to be reassured. He keened and John gripped his hips; he let out a whine, and John told him he was beautiful, leaning over him again, pulling Ben up against his chest. His arms were around Ben’s waist; he whispered into his loose hair, and Ben felt himself calm slowly. 

The perfect thing about John was that he never asked. He was a good friend. As Ben shook through the last of his panic attack, he brought a hand up to stroke his hair and kissed Ben’s cheek, and then he pushed him back down. Ben curled his fists into the quilt, needing an anchor, as he felt John’s slick fingers prod at him, and he keened when he sunk one in experimentally. “God, you’re tight,” John groaned; Ben answered him with a gasp as he took a second slender finger. “You’re always so tight.” It was said quietly, as if John couldn’t believe it. There were a few minutes of the slick noise of John pumping in and out of him at a slow pace before John murmured, “Lie down, honey.”

His fingers were still in him. Ben did as he was told, and he’d  _ forgotten _ about his cock - oh, how good it felt to be able to rub against the sheets, pressure on him from both directions, the angle shifting so John could run right up against the spot inside him that made him see stars. John stroked that bud of nerves patiently, silently, his focus on blooming him open until the slide was easy and every touch sent sparks through Ben’s blood.

John had a third finger at his entrance, tapping, but didn’t seem interested in giving him anything thicker than two. He worked Ben over until he was a moaning mess. Ben felt his own drool running down his chin and he was powerless to stop it; he fisted the blanket harder and reared back, arching so that John could see how much he was enjoying it. John pushed at the small of Ben’s back and made a show of pulling his fingers out, and Ben shimmied his hips to try to entice him back in. He heard John chuckle just before he was left panting against the mattress, feeling the slick of the oil drip down his thighs.

“Are you ready for your gift?” John asked. There was the muffled  _ click _ of the fabric-coated box’s lid closing as Ben vaguely registered John move around above him. “I hope you like it. I spent a lot of money.” John was prone over him, and he breathed over the shell of Ben’s ear. “But I guess if you don’t enjoy yourself,” he mused, “I can just use it myself.”

He lifted himself up and got back into position, straddling Ben’s knees. He was stuck there like this, John’s weight holding him down easily, not that he had any strength or desire of his own at this point to get up and flee.

And then… cold metal against him, a firm, unyielding pressure as he took it into his body, a slight stretch but not painful with all the preparation John had given him. Ben shuddered as John settled it fully in, all the tension in his shoulders shaking loose. John hummed, as if considering, as he pulled the thing out of him and slammed it back in; he didn’t give him much time to get used to its size. He worked it in and out of Ben a few times at a rapid pace, the drag deep and torturous, until he found an angle that drove it directly into Ben’s prostate and Ben cried out. He took some of the duvet in his mouth to quiet himself. “Shh,” John soothed, as Ben’s eyes welled with tears of overwhelming pleasure, “you’ve been so good so far, being quiet for me. Don’t stop now. Stay right there, take it, yeah. Take it.”

Ben choked on a sob, buried his face in the covers. He made a soft, pleading noise, again and again as John fucked him with whatever instrument of torture he’d brought with him, this cool and solid smoothness that slid in and out of him with no friction. All there was was the pressure on his prostate, the center of him hot and exquisite; all else melted away, even John. Ben just floated, let his body take over as he went out of his mind with need.

When John stopped, Ben let out a loud moan, and was rewarded for it with a sharp, stinging smack on his ass. It drew him back to earth and he wanted to kill for it; he wanted back into his little world of pure lust. Resenting John for disrupting him, he turned his head to glare at him.

John was holding up a small implement, a little staff, rounded and curved at each end, thick enough to fill his hand when he closed his fist it around it. Ben stared at it, enthralled; it was  _ gold, _ shining with his slick and glinting in the low light. “You like?” John asked, grinning.

Ben whined through his nose, wiggled his hips again. John let himself be jostled with him and then he laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He placed the dildo on Ben’s back, rolled it over him a few times. Ben shivered with the filth of it, but it pressed so nicely into his aching joints, and the oil warmed over his skin even as the metal held its temperature, still chilly against him. 

“You okay?” John asked. He sounded suddenly tentative, unsure. Checking on him. “You can answer,” he added, as he pressed the dildo hard into a sore muscle at Ben’s mid-back.

“Yeah,” Ben breathed. He shuffled, checked in on himself - nothing was numb, nothing was sore. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m -” he moved and the underside of his cockhead brushed hard against some fabric. He panted. “Good. Really good. More, please?” He did his best to sound sexy, young, convincing. John liked it when he was polite.

In response, John patted his ass lovingly. “Oh,” he said, and something in his tone set Ben just a little bit on edge, “you’ll get more.”

No matter. John went back to prodding him with the toy and Ben went right back to mewling for it. John coaxed him toward his orgasm with soft-spoken praise and Ben got just as worked up as John expected him to; he was good, he was sweet and responsive and beautiful and John made him believe it. He was out of his mind with need; he was writhing on the bed, under John, covered by him, fucked by him, open and moaning without censor now as he neared his impending release. He had to come, he had to come  _ right now _ or he was going to scream.

He very nearly screamed just the same. The noise he made as he spilled, a high-pitched, inhuman sound that came straight from his diaphragm, was not something he was proud of, but John worked the thing into him impossibly faster through it and he couldn’t think clearly enough to care.

“Good,” John was saying, as he rubbed his sweat-soaked forehead off on the sheets and tried to focus on his breathing, “good boy. Just a little more, now.”

Ben couldn’t believe his ears, nor his body; John was pressing the metal into his prostate again, hard, no longer fucking him with it but wiggling it back and forth against that spot, varying, too-intense pressure that made Ben try to squirm away.

“Where’re you going?” John asked him, his voice rough. “You trying to run away from me? Trying to get away?” Ben tried to go forward and John just followed him, until Ben ended up halfway off the bed, arms out in front of him, scrambling for purchase on the floor. “Should bend you over the desk, love, make you spill the rest all over it and make you clean up your mess when you’re through. I know you have more to give me, Benjamin, give it, give it here.”

He’d have said something in his own defense, but he was too far gone to care; John had him completely helpless. He focused on a knot in the hardwood and tried to get out of his body, tried to take it. Now that he’d come it felt so strange to take the intrusion, surreal. And even so he felt his stomach leap with betraying interest; he realized his want with horror and surrendered to it, letting John take him, feeling his slick thighs, his own sweat and John’s clothes, the excruciating weight of the dildo, insistent inside him. He felt his cock spasm, he was exhausted but he gave what John wanted even with all the blood that had rushed to his head in this new practically-upside-down position.

John let him go and helped right him on the bed. Ben collapsed back against the pillows and panted as John rose, went across to the washbasin Ben had passed up earlier and dipped a cloth in. He brought it back and patted Ben down with it, careful not to scrape it across his oversensitive skin. Ben appreciated the care, but he wasn’t done; he wrapped an arm around John’s waist as he knelt next to him, nudged at the bulge in John’s still-tied breeches with his nose. He looked up through his lashes as he pressed a kiss to where he reasoned the tip would be, and found John looking down at him, rag in hand, mouth open, as if he’d been frozen. Ben rolled a bit, letting himself at the ties in John’s breeches better; he worked at them aggressively until he could take John in his mouth, swallow him down. He’d done this in John’s absence, found a boy to play with at camp on more than one occasion, simply to pass the time. None of it had ever been as satisfying as his trysts with John, but it had kept his skills sharp, his throat yielding and eager; he swallowed around him and relished John’s broken moan.

John dropped the rag and buried that hand in Ben’s hair; he scratched at Ben’s scalp, an encouraging, soft touch. He stayed put, and Ben was happy for it; it allowed him to sink down on his cock all the way to the base, press his nose to John’s stomach. He brought a hand up and trailed it over John’s abs, the toned muscle jumping under his touch. He loved the way John’s body responded to him and he could feel it, the little reflexes that jerked at his manipulation. John may have been the one who liked to give orders, but Ben was good at this and there was power in that. Power he was happy to wield.

He held himself against John’s body for a moment, enjoying the way John convulsed for him and gripped his hair tight. There were rare moments where Ben understood the apparent obsession John had with getting him off; this was one of them, the way it felt to be in control, at the helm of a destiny of sort. He could work him off quickly with well-applied suction, or he could play with him, lave his tongue wet and flat along the underside of his shaft and moan so the vibrations would send little shocks through his body, tease him into frenzy. Ben knew how to make John come efficiently and he knew what drove him insane with want; he opted for the latter option, pulling off to swirl his tongue around the head, staring up at John the whole time, like a dare to hold his head and thrust into his waiting mouth.

John always resisted this invitation; sometimes Ben wished he wouldn’t, wished he’d pound into him like he knew he wanted to, but for now Ben was relishing the opportunity to take him apart piece by piece. He propped himself up on his elbow a bit better; John adjusted his grip in his hair, a little gentler, holding him around the back of the neck and petting the hair at his nape. 

Ben found it amusing, what with how talkative John was when he was fucking him, how quiet he became when he was the one being worked over. Quiet, whispered coos of praise seemed to be all he could muster. John, turned on, operated on a purely physical level. He was sort of the opposite of Ben, really; Ben needed to connect vocally, had to express his pleasure and want. John had teased him before, saying he’d get them in trouble carrying on like a wanton whore, used it against him; every once in a while he could do to be shut up, put in his place. Ben made it happen the best way he knew how.

John came with a low groan after a few more tricks of Ben’s tongue, and Ben held his mouth open and let his semen flood his tongue. He held it there for a moment, tongue out, eyes lowered, and John stroked his chin, leaned down to kiss him. Once again Ben was overwhelmed by how dirty it felt when John ran his tongue along Ben’s, and he let the muscle fall slack so John could take the fluid from him, share his own taste. Ben felt himself salivating with renewed arousal, though he was sure he would be tuckered out from this for weeks.

He collapsed on his back again, and John slumped against the pillows next to him. They lay there together, Ben nude, John mostly dressed, and Ben reached out and put his palm on John’s abdomen beneath his shirt, feeling the heat and the slickness of sweat there, the way it rose steadily when John inhaled. It was enough, that tether between them; they didn’t say a word, but John eventually shifted, rested his head on Ben’s chest. Ben smelled his hair, the way he always smelled of apples and a little bit like rain. Ben didn’t love him, but he could, he mused; he wondered if John thought the same thing.


End file.
